


you'll find something waiting

by cobaltmoony, Nonymos



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Nomad Steve Rogers, POV Steve Rogers, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, The Stucky Skype Sessions, White Wolf Bucky, denial is just a river in egypt, fuite en avant, set in that sweet two years gap, some long overdue, steve may be captain america but sam is captain obvious, well skype sex really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: These times are odd times. Steve’s forgotten what it meant to have a circadian cycle; he’s overtaken the sun around the globe more than once in less than a week. He sleeps when he’s tired, and eats when he’s hungry. There are no more movies he needs to watch, no more books he needs to read, no more small talk, no more silent apartments, nothing beyond the endless string of missions and how he can fit his immediate needs in there. It’s like being back in the European theater, this mixture of constant strain and exhilarating freedom.





	you'll find something waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Найдешь того, кто ждет тебя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875913) by [Magdalena_sylar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magdalena_sylar/pseuds/Magdalena_sylar), [WTF_Starbucks_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Starbucks_2019/pseuds/WTF_Starbucks_2019)



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALBY! You are an amazing artist, writer, beta, cheerleader, and big bang mod, and you are endlessly patient and astonishingly hardworking and so deeply kind, and you're a superb friend and a glorious partner in crime and JUST AN EXCELLENT ALL-AROUND PERSON, OKAY ♥♥♥ You deserve all the best and more. Pls enjoy this humble gift of rambling feels 'n porn, along with SMOKING HOT ART for your viewing pleasure. 
> 
> Thanks go to cobaltmoony for getting me to sneakily plot wih her :D

 

 

 

 

These times are odd times. Steve’s forgotten what it meant to have a circadian cycle; he’s overtaken the sun around the globe more than once in less than a week. He sleeps when he’s tired, and eats when he’s hungry. There are no more movies he needs to watch, no more books he needs to read, no more small talk, no more silent apartments, nothing beyond the endless string of missions and how he can fit his immediate needs in there. It’s like being back in the European theater, this mixture of constant strain and exhilarating freedom.

Steve’s always squared his shoulders and wiped his nose before people could see him cry, but this odd shameful kind of weightlessness is something he feels he should hide, too. They’re international fugitives without funding or resources. They’re vigilantes who’ll never see the end of the fight. Steve has no business _liking_ it that much. But he does, and he throws himself into it like never before, and he doesn’t think much beyond that. And it’s such a goddamn relief. For the first time since he woke up from the ice, things are simple again.

 “There’s a French phrase I like,” Sam tells him one day.

Steve looks up at him. They’re basically living in the Quinjet these days, and once you’ve accepted that as fact, the living gets easier. Natasha’s claimed the pilot seat as her own, sleeping curled up in a ball. They have a hand-cranked washing machine, a small plastic thing Steve can work without even thinking about it. They take turns making food over a camping stove, they always look for new card games to play. It’s the trenches again, but stretching overland and overseas. It’s the war that’s spread its wings over the whole world, the battlefield that’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Steve knows now that it’ll never end for him; knows that when he signed up, it was forever.

“It’s called _fuite en avant,_ ” Sam says.

Steve feels his muscles tense, the place just between his shoulder blades. Looks like he doesn’t want to hear what Sam’s got to say. Which means he should probably listen.

“I never knew you spoke French.”

“My sister does. She threw that at me a few times after Riley’s death, before I got my head out of my ass and went to therapy.” Sam sits next to Steve. “Tell me what it means. Since you obviously know.”

 _“Fleeing forward,”_ Steve says. “Doing something big and showy to hide the fact you’re actually running away.” Gabe was an excellent linguist and thus translated the phrase Dernier used to mumble a lot, directing it either at the Allies or the Axis, depending on his mood. “Is that what you feel I’m doing?”

“You tell me,” Sam says, asshole therapist that he is.

Steve straightens his back. “For the first time, it really does feel like I’m doing what I should be doing, Sam. Without compromise. Without second thoughts.”

“No, yeah, you’re obviously digging this vigilante thing. That’s not what I meant.”

Steve blinks. He was so ready to be lectured on their recent activities that he cannot imagine what Sam’s got to say now. “Then… what?”

“Can’t believe he’s gonna make me say it,” Sam says under his breath, then looks up and bursts Steve’s bubble with three words only. “What about Barnes?”

 

*

 

 _“And what did you say?”_ Bucky asks on the laptop screen.

Steve shrugs, putting his boots away and moving to sit on the edge of the couch. Every once in a while Natasha and Sam will insist on a crappy hotel room, when the ebb and flow of their chaotic life allows it. They’re between intel, between drop points, between missions. And yes, it’s nice to take a real shower, even if Steve would rather not sleep in a real bed. It’s all too soft these days.

“I don’t know. What _about_ you?” he asks, working on his shoulder straps, eyes down. “Are you happy there, Buck? In Wakanda?”

 _“Am I happy,”_ Bucky repeats.

There’s something in his voice. When Steve glances up, Bucky’s staring at him.

Steve’s gestures slow down until he comes to a complete halt, just sitting there, staring back, with his dark uniform half-open.

He can see himself in the little rectangle on the bottom right of the screen; the navy blue undershirt is peeking out at the collar. His hair’s gotten longer, his beard thicker and darker. It’s night time where he is. Bucky is radiant in contrast, with bright daylit windows at his back, wearing vivid red and yellow, his hair glowing copper after long hours in the sun. His eyes have never looked so blue in his tanned face. He’s so painfully gorgeous Steve has to look back down.

 _“Look at me,”_ Bucky says.

Steve does. Almost irresistibly, his eyes slide away again, and he finds himself looking at the wall. He can’t stare him in the face. It’s like staring at the sun.

 _“Look at me,”_ Bucky demands again. He waits until Steve does.

Then he says:

_“Keep going.”_

It takes almost a full minute for Steve to understand. Then his hands, still where he’d left them, start moving again, undoing the straps on his uniform. He does it with a questioning look first, then more decisively, though he’s feeling light-headed now at the implication. It’s like a dam just broke with those two words. _Keep going._ He’s stopped himself so many times, restrained himself from demanding more, from pushing, from asking questions. But now Bucky’s the one to demand.

After Steve’s zipped off his battered uniform, he sheds the navy under-armor too, tugging the shirt over his head, pushing down the compression pants. Before long, he’s standing in nothing but his boxer briefs. And—yeah. The old shield’s straps around his shoulders. He’d almost forgotten about them.

 _“You wear that underneath everything else?”_ Bucky asks flatly.

Steve rolls his shoulders. Maybe he should be embarrassed, but he’s had worse coping mechanisms. They both have. “Yeah. Helps me remember.”

He doesn’t say what he needs to keep in mind, and Bucky doesn’t need to ask.

 _“Keep it, then._ _But that’s all you can keep.”_

Steve gets the message and takes off his underwear. Now there’s nothing left, and he sits down again on the edge of the couch, not making a show of himself, not trying to hide either. Just naked in front of the camera.

He didn’t think he was running away from this. Shows how deep denial can go. And how smart Sam can be. Thing is, Steve never _needed_ to think about this. He made sure of it. There were always more pressing needs. Worlds to save. But Bucky’s alive, and now Bucky’s healed, and now Bucky’s even stable, and making a life for himself in this strange new country of Wakanda, where nobody’s hunting him and the cars do fly. He’s in the future while Steve’s still laboring in the past.

Hell, he’s never had sex this side of the century. Barely touched himself, a few times, when his deflated libido allowed it. But now, with Bucky watching... he thinks he could. Thinks he _wants._ Maybe.

They haven’t talked about what they used to be. They haven’t talked about anything from the past, save for those mindless snippets in the Quinjet—mostly a way for Steve to ask _do you remember?_ And Bucky to confirm, _yeah, Steve, fine, I do._ Talking about a girl in Coney Island, probably long dead, because it was easier than talking about everything else swelling between them, ready to burst. Neither of them wanted to risk the explosion.

And Steve in particular didn’t want to initiate anything. Out of hurt pride, he sees it now. Bucky was the one who stayed hidden, when Steve was trying to find him; he’s the one who went back in the ice, when Steve went back into the world. So Steve’s always thought the ball was in his court. But now he sees that he’s been punishing Bucky; shunning him, because he felt like he’d been shunned first. Playing noble, playing stoic, when really he was being stubborn and wounded. Trying not to think about it at all, because it would serve Bucky right, and Steve had more important things to do _anyway—_

Yeah, Sam’s got his number.

 _“You up for it?”_ Bucky says.

Steve doesn’t want to be stubborn anymore.

“Anything,” he breathes _._

That makes Bucky stare in silence for a little while longer. Then it’s his turn to look away. He’s been afraid, too, and Steve wants to slap himself, because of _course_ he has. Here Steve has been stupidly wrapped up in his pride, waiting for Bucky to come around, and being so self-satisfied about it, calling it responsible behavior—when Bucky was the one who had true reasons to be terrified of making the first step, so afraid of what he’d done, so afraid that Steve himself might want to kill him after seeing that tape in the Siberian bunker.

Bucky’s got half the memories and a thousand more sins weighing on his shoulders. Of course he was scared to offer himself, of course he stayed away, of course he went to hide. He was ashamed, and thinking he wouldn’t be wanted anymore, and Steve’s done nothing to alleviate it. Waiting for him to do all the work. Steve’s a fucking idiot.

It’s time to make amends.

Steve doesn’t mind to be naked, now, while Bucky stays fully clothed; he doesn’t mind that he’s apparently going to have to take orders for this. He doesn’t even mind that they’re not physically in the same room. On the contrary. There’s no better way to ensure it happens on Bucky’s terms, for real this time.

All the same, he won’t make the mistake of keeping quiet again. “Please tell me,” Steve says. “What you want. Throughout.”

His hands are shaking, too slight to show on camera. Maybe the same thing’s happening for Bucky. There’s so little oxygen between the two of them right now, even though they’re at both ends of the planet. Then Bucky looks back up and his _eyes_ —so bright in his tan face—would be enough to make Steve fall to his knees if he weren’t currently sitting down.

Bucky works his jaw, nervous. Then says, “All right,” in a low, hoarse voice, “all right.”

For a minute, there’s nothing. Steve’s the first to move, a peace offering, opening his legs just a little, turning his position into something just the wrong side of innocent. He’s not sure how his face looks right now; probably too close to begging. He won’t look at the tiny mirror of himself on the screen.

 _“You can start by…”_ Bucky huffs, running a hand through his hair, with a sour smile. _“Hell. I used to be better at this, didn’t I.”_

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says hoarsely. “There was no Skype in 1940.”

A snort. _“Yeah, yeah. Smartass.”_ He takes a bracing breath. _“Steve. What the fuck are we doing.”_

“I want to,” Steve says. It’s not pressuring him—he has to twist his own arm to believe it, but it’s true, it’s _not._ Bucky’s fought hard for the ability to say no. _You have to give him the dignity of his choice._ But that means giving him a choice at all. Letting him know what’s on offer. “Bucky, I never stopped wanting it.”

Bucky looks hopeful, and hesitant, and Steve’s going to _kick his own ass._ But that’s for later. He pushes his legs wider open, takes himself more firmly in hand. “You tell me, Buck. I’m ready. Like I said. Anything.”

 _“Yeah. Yeah. Shut up.”_ Bucky takes another deep breath then, abruptly: _“Okay, touch yourself.”_

It’s like an electric shock to Steve’s nerves. He’s as straightforward in obeying the order as Bucky was in giving it; spreading his legs to the last, giving him a full view, and beginning to move his hand. He’s half-hard already, but his hand feels like a stranger’s. Or like Bucky’s. And then like a ton of bricks, it hits him—it _might_ be Bucky’s hand on him, soon. They’re doing this, really doing this, trying with shaking hands, despite twisting stomachs, despite tangled pride and confused hurt, _trying._ First through screens. Then for real. His hands on him. His mouth on his. For real.

He’s been waiting so long to hold him again.

“Go on,” Steve murmurs. “Buck, you’re calling the shots here.”

 _“Fuck, Steve, I don’t know, I—”_ Bucky looks at him through the screen. _“Do you got slick?”_

Steve laughs, can’t help it, because _his life._ “No, Buck, I’m sorry. Didn’t plan for it.”

 _“S’okay. We’ll manage. God knows we’ve had to make do.”_ Bucky’s getting slightly more confident, his voice lilting and drawling now, shifting where he sits, taking a deeper breath. _“Think you can lie back on that couch?”_

It takes a minute to angle the camera right, so they can both still see each other; but eventually Steve ends up on his back, with the leather straps of the harness tight around his shoulders. The computer casts a bluish glow over his thighs and abs. Bucky doesn’t say much; still too shy, or still too hesitant, or maybe just too rusty. But he spurs Steve on, quietly, with a few words here and there, until Steve’s at full mast and the tension between them has eased, because they’re doing this thing and neither of them has crumbled into a panic attack yet, or a spiral of remorse. They were both scared to death, is the truth. And now they’re realizing at the same time that it can be easy again. That it’s never stopped being easy.

“People think I’m brave,” Steve says, closing his eyes, “but I never once made the first step. It’s always been you. I’m sorry it’s always been you.”

 _“Got issues of my own,”_ Bucky said with a sorry chuckle, _“you ain’t special.”_

“God, I know,” Steve says, hand still pumping regularly. The hotel room is stifling; he’s starting to sweat. “Sam got all fancy about it.”

_“Don’t talk about Sam while you’re jerking off for me.”_

That abruptly brings Steve to the brink, fully realizing what he’s doing, like a splash in water in his face. He cuts himself off on instinct, hand squeezing around the base of his cock. Bucky falls silent; when Steve looks at him, he can see the way his pupils have grown wide and hungry, even on the small screen.

Then his whole face crinkles and his eyes close and he’s _laughing._

_“Fuck me. You’re still so goddamn easy. Don’t even need to talk dirty to you. Just say whatever and let you work yourself up.”_

“Fuck _you._ Anything you say’s dirty talk,” Steve counters, starting to work at himself again. He’s definitely making it a show now, folding an arm behind his head, bracing his entire body so his muscles stand out. “Especially these days.”

_“These days?”_

“Your voice’s changed,” Steve says, half-gone so he doesn’t really pay attention to what he’s saying. “It’s quieter. Rougher. And—” He stops, goes still, looking anxiously at Bucky. “Sorry, I…”

 _“No. It’s okay.”_ Bucky hesitates. _“If you like how I’m now, it’s…”_ A smile, again. _“It’s good.”_

Steve exhales. “Of course I like how you are now, Buck. I should’ve made it clearer from the start, I—”

 _“If you cockblock yourself because of a guilt spiral, so help me,”_ Bucky interrupts. _“Stop thinking. Grab your balls.”_

Steve does, then pushes up his hips and puts a finger up his ass when Bucky tells him to. His body’s slowly straining up the pleasure curve again, glistening with sweat in the bluish darkness. It’s a hell of a workout, even by himself.

“M’close,” he says, “you tell me when—”

 _“Arch back,”_ Bucky says, a little breathless now, _“get a good angle—I want you to—to be covered in it—”_

Steve groans out loud, a helpless noise, and picks up the pace. He feels harder than he’s been in a long time, the sensation almost forgotten and now coming back to him—the tight grip of his ass around his finger, pumping in an out; his cock erect and pulsing full, slightly fatter in the middle, the velvet softness of the skin sliding around the hard shaft when he moves his hand, the moisture pearling at the tip, and how hot it feels, like a blaze spreading into his whole body, when he’s so close—

 _“Do it now,”_ Bucky says, _“and then you don’t do it again, not till I’m there to do it to you,”_ and that does it. The idea of not touching himself before he can get to Wakanda—which could take weeks; he can’t just _opt out_ of his current missions—just blows Steve’s mind right out of his skull, and he comes and comes and comes, all over his chest like Bucky wanted, moaning out loud and pushing down onto the couch which lets out a scream of springs.

 

 

When his soul folds back into himself, Steve looks to the side—his eyes glazing over his own body in the little rectangle screen, heaving, shaking, glistening with sweat and come—and finds Bucky there, waiting, haloed in daylight. He’s hiding a half of his face under his hand, breathing deep, and Steve blinks, tries weakly to get up on one elbow.

“Did you—did you also—”

 _“Nah.”_ There’s high color on his cheeks. _“But now I’m gonna have to.”_

“Can I see?” Steve asks candidly.

Bucky cracks up. _“I’m in the fucking palace, Rogers, I can’t do that in the conference room.”_

“The… the _palace?”_

 _“I wasn’t_ planning _for this,”_ Bucky defends himself. _“Just—you asked me if I was_ happy.” He says the word like it’s an insult. _“I couldn’t fucking let that slide. Asking me how I’m doing like we’re fucking_ strangers, _I—”_

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, chest still heaving. “Bucky, I’m sorry I let you go and never even tried—”

 _“Shut up, Rogers, this isn’t_ about _you,”_ Bucky growls. _“Can you stop trying to take everything onto your shoulders for_ one damn minute. _I’m the one who pushed you away. And right then I realized I’d almost managed. And I panicked. And now I really have to go jerk off in a palace bathroom.”_

Steve laughs and laughs, and feels his head spinning, and realizes he’s been sleeping in chunks of two hours and eating almost nothing at random times, and this is _not a good thing._ He’s been welcoming constant missions so he wouldn’t have to think about this. He’s so goddamn stupid it’s a miracle he’s still alive. But that’s not news.

“I love you, Buck,” he says to the ceiling. He’s never said that out loud. It’s always been implied. But if there ever was a time for stating the obvious—“I’ve been loving you for a century and I never stopped. Not once. Not for a thing.”

Bucky’s sitting just outside the screen; maybe by accident, or maybe not. _“Come see me,”_ he says. _“Soon.”_

“Soon,” Steve agrees. So many things have changed, in and out of them, and around them. But between them, as it turns out, everything’s stayed.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you're so inclined :D And go reblog the art post [right here!](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/post/178324648161/happy-birthday-to-my-favorite-person-in-the%22)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for you'll find something waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16679287) by [cobaltmoony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony)




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